April. April had pulled him out of the perpetual 3 a.m. inebriation that had been his life for the past few months, had brought him back to a diner sober. But there the metaphor broke down, because Paul felt better than sober. He felt high. High on life. High on the sun, the breeze whipping across his face from the open window, the thought of that obstreperous little jay. April had brought him back to here and now; the past and future no longer held any sway.
And yes, abstractly Paul was aware of the irony that sleeping with April had not simplified his future but, in fact, made it much more complicated. He was aware that any sort of relationship with April would have to be carried out in secret, furtively. He was aware that April had not, in fact, affirmed that there would even be a relationship. She hadn’t given him the slightest hint that last night was anything more than a giant mistake on her part.
But all that, while not altogether irrelevant, was also no cause for alarm. All he wanted to think about was April. Not the logistics of having a relationship with her, but April as a person. That little half smile on her face when she had told him to take off his shoes before they got into bed, how big her eyes had been the moment before he kissed her. And the sex. How, despite her age—or perhaps because of it—there had been a wild, almost violent energy between them, how it all had felt so new and unadulterated. They were the first two people ever to have slept together, the first ever to have kissed, to have fit their bodies together in such a way. It was as if they had invented fucking.
And it wasn’t just the sex. With April, everything felt new, full of possibility. That they were so different meant that every conversation was unpredictable, every moment they were together a potential discovery.
It had never been like that with other girls. Near the end of their relationship, Sasha had been fond of pointing out to Paul that his derision and scorn for his own generation spoke not to any superiority on his part, but to a secret and persistent self-loathing. Paul hated the hipsters and students and wannabe artists of Brooklyn, not because he was better than them, but because he was one of them. And now Paul was ready to concede his ex’s point. He was ready to admit that yes, although discovering that both he and Sasha loved all the same bands had been a turn-on at first, it had soon become a disappointment. After all, what good was a boyfriend if he couldn’t make his girlfriend a mix of songs she didn’t know? But he could make a mix for April! She wouldn’t know the songs. There was sure to be much they disagreed on! Politics, art, interior decorating. But instead of turning him off, the way it would had she been someone his own age, it filled him with excitement and joy. He imagined arguing with April over an election or whether a carpet was ugly, and he felt an immediate rush of pleasure.
Paul’s good mood didn’t leave him when he got home and came into the kitchen to find his mother sitting at the table, looking out the window with a forlorn expression on her face. It merely hiccuped. He couldn’t fathom anyone not feeling as good as he did. Then he remembered that his mom hadn’t slept with April Swanson last night and so had no reason to feel good. She was deprived. “Hey, beautiful!” he said, walking into the kitchen and giving her a hug that she did not return. He left off embracing her a bit awkwardly and went over to the refrigerator. “What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?” he asked as he opened the fridge.
“Where were you this weekend, Paul?” said his mom, not in a “just asking” voice. This was her “I have a right to know” voice.
Paul kept his head in the refrigerator, pretending to examine its contents. Sharon Frazier hadn’t demanded an account of her son’s whereabouts since he was sixteen, and on another day he would have resented this question. But not today. Today he was on a higher plane.
“I was just hanging out with some old friends from high school,” he answered at last, pulling out a can of seltzer water. His mom had started buying seltzer in bulk since she quit drinking. This was his first time trying it—he was ready to experience new things.
“All weekend?”
Paul turned around. His mom was looking at him intently. It was impossible that she knew anything. Impossible. “Yeah,” he said, looking at her evenly. “Why?”
“Do you know what day it is, Paul?”
“Sunday,” he answered, and then it hit him: Sunday, as in Sunday-morning church. He’d skipped out on work without even realizing it. “Oh, shit,” he said, and sank down into the chair across the table from his mom, trying not to show his relief that this was all she was calling him out on. “Whoops.”
The can of seltzer gave a pop as he opened it. “Mom, I’m sorry. I totally forgot.”
“Look, Paul, if you didn’t want this job, you didn’t have to take it. I wouldn’t have forced you.”
Paul shook his head. “No, I did, I do. This job is great. I’m really grateful for it.” He took a long gulp of his seltzer.
“Please don’t mock my church, Paul.”
“No, Mom, I’m being serious. This job has been good for me, I think. I’m really getting to know people.”
Sharon looked at him, searching his face for signs of the usual sarcasm, but his smile looked like the real thing. “I just wish you’d take it a little more seriously. I stuck my neck out for you.”
“I just forgot, that’s all.” He took another drink of seltzer. This stuff was good. Why hadn’t anyone ever told him?
“I called you. More than once.”
“The phone died. I couldn’t charge it.” He decided he would drink this from now on. He was going to quit booze. Smoking, too. He was going to go for jogs in the morning, get in shape.
“Whatever. But just so you know, I had to call my pastor and lie to him this morning, tell him you were sick. That didn’t feel good, Paul, lying to my pastor.”
For the first time since he came into the house, Paul felt almost irritated. The way she said “pastor” with so much weight, it was close to reverential. God forbid you lie to your pastor, he wanted to exclaim, Anyone else, fine, but not your precious pastor. “I’m sorry,” he said flatly. “I fucked up.”
“That tone is really convincing.”
Why was she trying so hard to kill his vibe? How could he make her understand that this wasn’t, in any way, a big deal? “What else do you want me to say?”
She sighed. “Nothing, Paul. I don’t want you to say anything.”
A long, hot shower helped restore Paul to his earlier state of Zen, and when he came into his bedroom, dried himself off, and changed into a pair of shorts and a fresh T-shirt, his bed looked inviting to him in a way that it hadn’t in months—not because he had nothing better to do, not because it was the best way to escape his maddening thoughts, not as any last resort, but because he was simply and amazingly exhausted. He collapsed onto his bed and let the world drift away.
He was woken up maybe ten minutes later, when his phone, which he had left charging on the table by his bed, began ringing. Paul sat up, looked at the caller ID, and yawned a hello into the phone.
“Paul?” Nicki sounded as if she couldn’t quite believe she was hearing his voice.
“Yeah, it’s me. What’s up?”
“‘What’s up?’” Nicki repeated. “Are you serious right now? Have you checked your phone lately? The two dozen missed calls and messages I left you?”
This phone would be the end of him. “Sorry, I haven’t. I got home and kinda just crashed.”
“Where did you go last night?”
“Uh … home, I went home.”
“Where are you now?”
“I was sleeping.”
“I was really worried about you, Paul. We got back and you were gone, and your car was gone, and you were so drunk … I thought something must have happened.” He could hear her voice cracking.
“I’m sorry,” Paul said. Maybe he should just get those two words tattooed on his forehead and put it on his voice-mail greeting, to save time. Y
ou have reached the voice mailbox of Paul Frazier. If you’d like to hear him apologize, press “one.”
“You know you were completely horrible this weekend. You are aware of that, right?”
“I have a vague idea. But I don’t remember everything, to tell you the truth.”
“Convenient for you. Convenient not to remember. Let’s just say calling you a total asshole would be an understatement.”
“I won’t dispute the charges.”
“I don’t get you, Paul. When we first met up, that night back in June, I thought we hit it off, sorta. I mean, yeah, it was just a night together, but we had fun, didn’t we? And you were nice. Sad but nice. Then in the morning, you make me sneak out your friggin’ window, and I did, because I thought that’s what you wanted, and I have this thing where I tend to do whatever boys want me to do—original, I know. But I don’t hear from you forever, and then you call me out of the blue. We hang out and you’re insane—not just as a figure of speech, but literally insane. And then you disappear. No explanation. I mean, you had me worried sick. I didn’t know where you went, and you’d been saying some weird things. You won’t answer your phone. And now, when I finally get a hold of you, you’re sleeping? You couldn’t even bother to send me one little text so I know you’re not in the ER or dead in a ditch somewhere? And let’s not forget, you called me to hang out. You fucking called me, Paul. So I think I deserve a text. I deserve at least one goddamn text.”
“Nicki, I—”
She cut him off. “No, Paul, forget it. I’m not gonna be that annoying bitch you have to apologize to. I’m sure you’ve had enough of those. Have a nice life.”
He said her name again, but he knew she had already hung up. He looked at the phone in his hands for a moment, then put it back on the table, rolled over on the bed, and went back to sleep.
The next morning, Monday, dawned bright and hot. By nine, the temperature had already risen above eighty, and the air was thick and heavy, as if the heat were some physical weight the air was trying, and failing, to hold up. Paul hardly noticed. He arrived at church by nine thirty, half an hour earlier than he needed to be there. Pulling into the parking lot, he scanned the area for April’s silver Honda. He didn’t see it.
By ten o’clock, when the VBS started, she still hadn’t arrived. Paul couldn’t think. He couldn’t concentrate on the simple task he had given himself: putting a new blade on the church’s old Weed Eater that was stored in the shed. Every ten seconds, he was looking up to the drive, hoping to see her car pull in.
At ten forty-five, having abandoned the Weed Eater in a state worse than when he’d found it, Paul went to the main pavilion, where Lydia Newman was sitting at a table, scribbling something in a notebook. Beside her was the empty chair where April usually sat. Lydia looked up at him and quickly tried to hide her initial surprise—for the first time that day, Paul noticed he was sweating profusely. His shirt was damp and clinging to his back. His forehead appeared to be leaking.
“Paul!” Lydia said brightly, “Jeez, you look hot. Do you need some water?”
“I need to speak to April,” Paul croaked. His throat was dry.
“Ms. Swanson isn’t coming in today. She’s home sick.”
Paul stared at her.
“Is there something you need help with? Technically, I’m in charge of things when Ms. Swanson’s out. So I’ll try my best.” Lydia gave a nervous giggle, but Paul had already turned away without answering, and walked out of the shade of the tent and back into the glaring sun.
Up until now, he had been unaware of the heat. Now it seemed to enclose him in its thick, sticky embrace. The sun hammered down on him as if it wanted to drive him into the ground, and a headache throbbed in his temples, just below the skin.
He wanted to call her. He had to resist the urge. He had to resist the urge to get in his car, drive to her house, and burst through her front door, find her where she was hiding. He would take her in his arms … and then what? Scream and swear at her? Break down sobbing?
All around him were kids. Laughing and screaming, running around in seemingly random circles. He knew there were adults supervising, but at the moment, he couldn’t see them. Just kids dressed up in robes and headdresses, throwing water balloons at each other, arguing over whose fake gold was whose—a field of adolescent chaos. A Biblically themed coed Lord of the Flies. It was terrifying.
In the Middle Ages, a citizen might run into a church and plead sanctuary to receive temporary safe haven from pursuers.
But there was no real sanctuary at New Life. No rows of wooden pews or giant stained-glass windows. Nowhere for a citizen to hide. As Paul walked slowly through New Life’s empty gym, the din from outside was only barely audible. He stopped below one of the basketball hoops and wondered whether he could still jump up and reach the rim, but decided not to try. He wandered over to the front of the room and leaped up onto the empty stage. Jon Newman’s acoustic guitar sat on its stand in the corner, and beside it was a chair, as if they had just been waiting for Paul to show up.
He hadn’t touched a guitar in months, not since Sasha broke up with him, but holding it in his hands and beginning to strum absently, he didn’t feel anything, good or bad—not a sense of homecoming, nor any sort of revulsion. It was just a guitar. And these were just chords, waves of sound, meaningless vibrations. If he moved his fingers on the frets, the sound waves changed.
“What song’s that?”
Paul looked up to find DeShawn standing on the end of the stage, near the curtains, his hands in his pockets.
“Jesus, DeShawn,” said Paul, unslinging the guitar from around his neck. “Are you ever actually where you’re supposed to be?”
DeShawn walked onto the stage. “It’s a free hour right now. I’ve still got a little time before they notice I’m gone.”
“You know, I got in a lot of trouble last time, in the locker rooms, when I didn’t turn you in.”
DeShawn smirked, almost smiled, and shook his head. “No, you didn’t.”
Paul couldn’t argue. Besides the talk with April, there had been no consequence. And although at the time the conversation had been extremely uncomfortable, he now remembered it fondly, as he did any memory involving April. He had so few to choose from.
“You know Jimi Hendrix?” DeShawn asked, coming closer and inspecting the guitar Paul was now holding by the neck.
“The name founds familiar.”
DeShawn looked at him quizzically, and Paul realized that his sarcasm had gone undetected.
“Yes,” he said, “I know Hendrix.”
“You like him?”
“Yeah, I like him.”
“Is it true nobody taught him how to play guitar? He just did it?”
Paul nodded. “He was self-taught for the most part, yeah.”
DeShawn smiled. “Crazy. Who taught you?”
“I never had a real teacher—just picked it up from different places. Once you master the main chords, you can teach yourself a lot.”
“The main chords?”
“Yeah.” Paul reslung the guitar over his shoulder. “C, D, and G are the ones to know for beginners.” He placed his fingers on the strings and strummed. “This is G.” Paul showed DeShawn D and C. “That chord progression is responsible for an ungodly number of pop songs.” He began to play “Sweet Home Alabama.”
DeShawn watched Paul’s hands intently, almost hungrily—so much so that Paul stopped playing and stood up. “All right, man, take a seat,” he said, offering DeShawn the guitar.
DeShawn looked at him suspiciously, as if he expecting him to yank the instrument away the moment he reached for it.
“Go on,” Paul said impatiently. “I know an aspiring Hendrix when I see one.”
DeShawn took the guitar and sat down in the chair. The instrument was big and awkward on the boy’s lap, but his arms were
long, and almost immediately he had it in the right position.
“Okay, so …” Paul looked around and saw another chair folded up on the side of the stage. He brought it over and sat down next to DeShawn. “Let’s try a G first,” he said. “I’ll show you where to put your fingers.”
DeShawn flinched visibly when Paul put his hand on DeShawn’s. “It’s important that your hand be relaxed,” Paul said as DeShawn adjusted and allowed him to place his fingers on the strings. “Okay, now, press down hard and strum.”
Paul had gone through the motions of giving people their first guitar lessons before. Girls, mostly. He never offered, but at parties or alone in his room they always asked, their eyes big, looking up at him, “Paul, will you teach me how to play guitar?” It was a very efficient way to get close to someone—physically, at least. But of all the guitar lessons he’d given, Paul had never seen anyone catch on as quickly as DeShawn. In less than ten minutes, he had down the three chords Paul had shown him and was working on moving back and forth between them.
Paul laughed. “You’re sure you’ve never played before?”
DeShawn shook his head, keeping his eyes on his fingers. “My mom never listened to music, except for church stuff.”
Paul didn’t say anything. He had no idea what had happened to this boy’s mother and wasn’t about to ask.
DeShawn looked up as if something had just occurred to him. “My dad, though … I think my dad plays guitar or bass. He likes music. The one time I went to his apartment, he had this whole wall of records. But it’s all black music—not like rap, though, or Michael Jackson, but all this weird stuff from Jamaica or somewhere.”
“Reggae or ska, probably,” said Paul.
DeShawn shrugged. “I don’t like it. He just listens to it when he’s smoking, anyway.”
“So your dad’s still around?” Paul ventured to ask.
Another Life Page 18